Corrupted Antagonists
by VSSAKJ
Summary: -DISCONTINUED- A small collection of Bakura x. Seto drabbles. Deals with both Antago & Corruptshipping. Mostly personal attempts at different styles of characterization.
1. Poison

**P O I S O N**

Bakura was like a drug. An addiction. A violent and painful obsession, a harsh and desperate craving, a lustful primitive _want_ that wouldn't go away until it was satisfied. And satisfaction wasn't something that came easy.

It had been such a long time that Bakura had been invading his room at night that he'd come to need it, want it and depend on it. It wasn't just the sex, though that was definitely a large part of it – it was that someone wanted him and needed him.

Bakura always came to him. _Always_. He never sought out the pale teenager. _Never_. To hunt him down was giving in, and he just didn't give in. He refused. He wouldn't.

Because if he did, he'd lose. It wasn't a game, but he'd lose anyhow.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for. He knew he wasn't the type to look for the clichéd fairy-tale love, with the happy ending and the overly sweet joy that never really happened. He didn't care for the clingy, 'I-depend-on-you' concept – he was too independent to willingly be anchored by a ball and chain. And what was the point of the generic concept of love? The boring 'good morning', 'good evening', and 'I love you'? Energy could be better spent watching paint dry.

He hadn't known he'd come to enjoy this cruel, bruising, 'I loved you then so I love you now' version. This 'I'll hurt you because you made me wait' and 'I'm going to punish you because you're resisting'. This _hurting_.

Sometimes he was tempted – oh so tempted – to fight back, to be the one dealing the pain, just to see how Bakura would react. Maybe he'd be scared, and stop coming. Unlikely. Maybe he'd roll over and accept it. Hah. That was so ridiculous it was laughable. Maybe he'd scream.

Screaming was likely. Maybe once, just once, he'd scream, instead of the other way around. Maybe once, Bakura would be screaming his name. Seto. _Seto!_

What a delightful concept.


	2. Corrupted

**C O R R U P T E D**

I used to be pure.

I used to be right and good and untouched and unmarred and unwronged and unspoiled and pure. You destroyed that me. You shattered that me. You corrupted that me.

I used to kneel at the gods' shrine every morning and offer up my prayers. My small, quiet prayers, seeking only for the better of my country. They were unselfish prayers. When you came I started begging for salvation. I started thinking about me, and worrying about the wrong that would befall me, and concerning myself less and less with what I should have been thinking about. You would consume me, I feared. You would do exactly as you did.

So I prayed. But you'd always linger on the fringe and catch the words before they left me, steal my lips and my mouth and my senses with a kiss.

Stealing. That's what you do. That's all you do. It's wrong. I know it's wrong, but I can't bring myself to stop you. Especially when it's me. When it's my lips and my body and my wits and my me. You've taken away what I wanted to be, and given me what I am now.

Not give. Left me with. This faithless, corrupt husk of humanity, capable of little on my own and less with you around.

I don't think I'll ever forgive you those stolen prayers. I don't think I can. They took too much away from me.

You took too much.


	3. You

**Y O U**

"Hey Seto."

There was a voice. A voice and it was piercing that nice comfortable dark sleep-like haze that had just settled over him like a warm blanket. He would ignore it. Yes, that was a good idea.

"Hey, Seto. I know you're not sleeping." His shoulder was nudged rather roughly.

So he sighed and opened his eyes. "What?"

"Do you dream?"

… Something was going to die soon. "You woke me up just to ask me something that stupid?"

"Don't lie to me, you weren't sleeping yet."

"How the hell do you know?"

"Still breathing too many times per minute."

Alright, he'd known Bakura was obsessive but that was just creepy. "… You count?"

Bakura shrugged faintly. "When I leave you're always sleeping so it's not hard to keep track of. Thieves like to know those kinds of things, you know."

No, he didn't, but then he also didn't care to continue this conversation any longer than needed so he kept his mouth shut.

Silence stretched between them for a few moments, and Seto almost settled to go back to trying to sleep when Bakura's voice came again, "So, do you dream?"

Time for some scientific facts. "Everyone dreams, Bakura."

"What do you dream about?"

"Why the sudden curiousity?" And now, of all times… he stole a glance at the clock, it read three twenty-two in the morning. Great.

"It's always interested me."

… Twitch.

Since Seto didn't reply, Bakura went on. "I've always dreamed about fire and blood and dark things." He didn't mention the certain people who sometimes ventured into his dream world. He didn't think that would help get information out of Seto. "I wondered if everyone dreams about things that made them happy."

… Was there some kind of force that would take pity on him and kill him now? All he wanted was to _sleep_ and here he was learning that the man he sleeps with entertains enjoyable dreams about blood.

"What do you dream about, Seto?" Bakura pressed.

Something believable, quick. "Numbers." He rolled over and closed his eyes again. Maybe if he made it obvious enough Bakura would just give up.

Bakura took a moment to digest that, and Seto took advantage of that moment to thrust himself as deep into sleep as possible. He was just teetering on the edge when Bakura spoke next, so the words were hazy and drifting through a muffling curtain, "Really?"

"No…" Hmm? Was he speaking? He didn't think so, it must be some kind of trick of his sleepy brain….

"What, then?"

What was he talking about? Asking? Hnn… dreaming… something like that. "You."

… Ah good, it was silent. He could sleep now.


	4. Seto Monologue

"You know... I've got nothing left to tell you. I've tried everything. I've even said things I didn't want to say. Nothing works. You cling like a strangling vine -- you're aware that I always have to compare you to something negative. You won't leave me. It's like you're... desperate. I would have said dependant except you'd kill me if you knew. And you aren't, really. It just seems like you need me.

"It doesn't make sense to me. No one ever really _needs_ me. I make myself needed, by pushing myself into positions where they have no choice but to call on me. My brother's the only exception but you -- why do you need me? I'm not helping you accomplish anything you can't do on your own.

"It's not a nice situation. Whenever I have a business trip you want to fight about it. I don't. I don't care what you think, my priorities are Mokuba and my company and my own survival, in that order. You don't come into the picture. But you've _forced_ yourself into a mold I'd discarded from my set -- you've forced yourself into someone unrelated I have to... worry about. Not care. Worry.

"I keep wondering what you'd have been like if you'd never met me. Not now, not ever. Not in the past you always say we lived in. Would you have been the same? Would you have needed someone to sleep next to you? Someone to pull into the dark for a sly kiss? Someone to chase after, to care for... to love? Would you have needed me then? If you'd never met me?

"Would you?"

Bakura rolled over and slept on, and Seto sighed before huddling down beneath the sheets, facing in the opposite direction. He knew he'd never get an answer.


	5. Can't

(I feel this drabble merits a bit of warning -- it's a tad creepy in my opinion, and I was accidentally channelling a psycho character I role-play when I wrote it. All grammatical errors are _intentional_, so please don't call me on them.)

**C A N ' T**

Seto wants to kick him out, and he can't figure out the best way to do so.

He could wake Bakura, tell him to leave and not come back, and hope for it to turn out well.

No, that wouldn't work.

Bakura would smirk, agree in that peculiar way that meant Seto'd done something he considered cute, and leave. The following evening, he'd turn up and the cycle they'd developed would start all over again.

Seto thinks he needs a better method. He's tried the last one before (or at least, anything and everything similar), if his prediction is worth anything. It seems to be very accurate and plausible, in his opinion.

Maybe he can do something more severe.

Maybe he can pack up and move to a remote location without telling Bakura. Take Mokuba, his work, send e-mails on how to keep his company run.

... But that wouldn't work either.

Bakura was too stubborn. He'd find a way to follow, be it via threats or information theft or pure dumb luck. Bakura was like a vampiric bloodhound, and Seto was his blood-letting target. Or prey. Or whatever you called the thing a bloodhound was supposed to find if it were bleeding.

Seto wants to be rid of him. He knows one way to do that, but it's very permanent and very illegal. And very, very bad.

But Seto doesn't care. He's frustrated and annoyed and tired. He doesn't want this forced affair anymore. He doesn't want these bruises and sore muscles and lies and hurts and _everythings_.

He could strangle Bakura. But that takes a long time and Seto thinks that maybe if Bakura opened his eyes, Seto would be the one who lost the fight. Bakura had a strong will to survive.

He could poison Bakura. But knowing the theif, he'd noticed.

He could stab Bakura. Yes, that was promising. Pretend he wanted Bakura's hands and tongue and everything, and then cut the thief when he wasn't paying attention. Bakura would like that. Seto could push and push until it was far enough along that Bakura would die.

There, he's said it.

He wants Bakura dead.

He looks over at the white ghost collapsed on his bed, naked and unashamed of his nakedness, asleep and unafraid in his rest.

He wants to kill Bakura.

And he knows he can't.


	6. Liar

**L I A R**

You're a liar, you know that? You lie, to yourself and others and _him_ and the people who ask questions and the ones who really care. You lie to all of them.

You _love_ him. It's plain in your eyes when you look at him, except when you're angry or too tired to see properly. But you do, you love him more than you let yourself accept. You treat it like a game. Some kind of sick, hurtful _game_. You tell yourself that letting him see anything, letting him know anything, that's the loss of a point. And that for every day you keep him from learning something, you win a point. You'd like to think you're winning so far, but you have to keep playing hard every day, because he's devious and tricky and he just might find out if you let your guard down even the slightest.

People around you speculate and wonder, but you brush them aside or ignore them. You don't think it's worth them knowing; don't think it's any of their business, that they're just _lying_ when they express concern about the marks you try so hard to conceal. You've gotten good at it, yes, but you can never hide the hickeys that ride just a little too high on your neck or the bruises from when you've been struck in the face by an infuriated fist. It's your own fault people have started to worry. You know what will happen when you refuse and fight and argue and push and push and push. You know he never takes 'no' for an answer.

He asks you questions that you never, _ever_ answer honestly. When he's reasonable, you could be too, but you won't. He asks if you want him to leave, to be nicer, to stop talking, to do what you want… he tries, and you ignore him or challenge him. You provoke him. When you'd really rather for him to keep going, you tell him that you want him to stop. When he asks why you took so long, you reply with sarcastic nothings, never just that you had extra work to do or something simple and honest. When he asks if you remember him, you say no. When he asks if you love him, you refuse to answer. That's a lie in itself, the silence. Silence in blank and cool and unfriendly, but what you feel is hot and rushing and _needy_. You need the affection, and when he offers, you push it away.

You're such a _liar_.

You get phone calls sometimes, from people who've heard this rumour or that story, and you tell them things that work best for you. No, you've never heard of that name, but yes you've seen someone of that description before. Maybe he's a stalker or an assassin or a spy – maybe the police should be involved. Of course you've never that obvious with what you imply, you always leave it to them to decide what the best course of action is. And it gets you publicity, which you accept, positive or negative. But when it gets going too far you have to step in and declare it slanderous, and then they back off for a while until there's a new rumour to spread.

You know there's someone who's dieing to know all of this. That's all he really wants to know; why you keep waking up late and taking such long showers and wearing only long sleeves and talking even less than always but smiling to yourself when you think he's not looking and leaving work earlier than you used to or staying out so late that you couldn't possibly still be working. He wants to know because he cares, because he's worried, because he wants to share in your happiness in what little way he can (by seeing _you_ happy), but you won't let him in. You won't let him glimpse your precious treasure trove of happy things. You're like a miser, treating each memory and event like a rare gold coin and stuffing it away out of his sight so you're the only one who can enjoy it. You say you don't want him involved because it'll get him hurt, because it will end up being unfair in some way.

It's a _lie_.

You keep people out because you want _him_ all to yourself. Even if you push him away, it's a different direction, so that he just comes flying back. You're selfish, greedy, wanting, craving, needing…

You're a _liar_.


	7. Hate You

_(This is very old, from the depths of my LJ memories. Bakura POV, unchanged from that time so, like most of these drabbles, it is an experiment with characterisation.)_

**H A T E Y O U  
**

I hate you, Kaiba. You and your power and your riches and your brother and your attitude and your idiocy and your memory and you. You don't really have power. You think you do. You used to have power. What you possess now is a mere shadow of that which you possessed before. But you don't realize that. You can't. You think money is power. But there is so much more, more that is power. Not more money; money isn't power. You needed no more of that illusory form of so-called power. Heck, you don't need most of what you have. But you always were one for luxury.

I hate you, Kaiba. Your obsession with your brother has hurt him more than you will ever realize. Hurt lots of people, not the least of whom yourself. And he's so similar to you without being like you at all. For one you're more of an ass. You think you can and have to do everything alone. Think you can be everything alone. You're as much of a fool as you always were. Just as selfish as ever.

I hate you, Kaiba. You're such an idiot. Such a fool! You don't see things sitting right in front of you, flaring lights in your eyes. Your eyes are sadly dull. They used to be so bright, so fierce. Granted, anyone could say they're still like that. But it's different. They don't know -they don't have any idea! Your eyes used to be bright even in the moonlight, every time you looked out your window in hopes that I would be there. The way they glistened every time I was there and whenever I spoke softly to you. The way they shuttered when I kissed you and opened light and eager. Those were the gentle days; the early days, when we barely knew one another. But your eyes sparked on the hard days; later on, the more we grew to know each another. Blazed and flashed and narrowed at me. We really weren't compatible for kindness. Oh but I didn't care. I loved it when you were angry. That made it so much better, so much more worth it.

But you've forgotten all that. Your memory is terrible. Perhaps it's because you really did die. Perhaps because you've had the chance to live other lives, have other loves. I don't know.

I was never there.

I hate you, Kaiba.


	8. Die

**D I E**

_You wouldn't die for me, I've died for you  
You wouldn't die for me, I've already died for you  
You wouldn't die, you wouldn't die, you wouldn't die!_

You're going to deny me again tonight, aren't you? How _dare_ you.

You don't remember, you say. You don't remember me dying because your Pharaoh caught me. You don't remember that my last look – my last smile! – was for you and only you. You don't remember the hell I visited again and again so I could stay close to you. You don't remember the time I left so you would _realise_ how much I mattered to you.

And you did realise, you know? But you've _forgotten_. Oh how notoriously poor your memory is. It always was. You forgot the most important things, forgot that I was the King of Thieves, forgot that your loyalty was entirely to the Pharaoh – I will admit to having something to do with that, however – forgot that the other priests had eyes and ears beyond their own, and that we were a secret.

How could you forget that we were a secret? That made it enticing. That made it _difficult_. But you never understood how I liked challenges. _You_ were a challenge. When I beat you, I had to find more ways to make it interesting. I had to visit at least once every seven days and then twice and then three times and then once during the day and then stay for a full day and it kept getting more and more _dangerous_ until I was finally caught.

And then I died.

I died for _you_. Do you see? I died once, when I chose to work parallel to the Pharaoh. I died for you then. I was closest to you then. You were mine, then. You thought it the other way around, but you were wholly mine. Always.

But I died for real. _For real_. I remember dying. It was quick, but far from painless. It _hurt_. It hurt more knowing that I had to leave behind my possessions – my you.

You died. But you died sleeping. You weren't killed. And worse, you weren't held on to. There was nothing to anchor you to that time – you were through. It was over. It _ended_. You died because you were tired of it. You died because there was _nothing _left. You died for _you_. I died for _you_. Why is it that we both _died _for the same person?

I died for you twice already. I'm dying for you again. You _killed_ me. And you don't remember.


	9. Lights Out

_(A/N: Written for apollymi on LJ as a Christmas gift.__ The power went out at my house and I was inspired. So shoot me.)  
_

**L I G H T S O U T**_  
_

_'The power'_ Seto wrote, _'is out.'_

It had been for the past six hours or so. As far as he was aware, no one in the city had any electricity; its loss was being accredited to a freak snow storm that had blown through. Domino was in turmoil – and the radio that had died over an hour ago had recommended that citizens remain calm and stay indoors. Seto had hardly seen a reason to go out anyway.

His laptop battery had died approximately two hours previous, but he could guess that it was about nine-thirty in the evening. It was terribly dark; he couldn't see more than a couple of feet away from him, much less out the window into the gloom. He hadn't left this chair in his office since he'd put Mokuba to bed – and that had been a while ago. The boy had quickly grown bored after running down the batteries on everything he owned, and had crept into the office to sit on the floor next to his older brother; he'd eventually fallen asleep against Seto's leg. It hadn't been long after that when Seto had gently nudged him awake and taken him to bed.

_'This'_ Seto wrote, _'is unacceptable.'_

He had the nagging suspicion that Bakura was somehow behind this, no matter how ridiculous that sounded. Heck, forget ridiculous – it sounded _impossible_. But the thief had proven his ability to go above and beyond any sort of expectation before, so Seto couldn't help his misgivings.

Even knowing that the servants present in the house had gone and pulled all the curtains shut in an attempt to conserve heat, he found himself shivering. Granted, he wasn't wearing any more layers than usual, but the temperature in the house hadn't dropped that much!

Even wearing socks, his ankles were extremely cold.

Quite suddenly, he heard the door open and then close again. He swiveled sharply in his chair, peering desperately but seeing nothing. Tentatively, he spoke aloud, "Bakura?"

As if he'd been summoned by word alone, something in the dark shifted to reveal Bakura's white hair. A second later, his teeth appeared in a wicked grin, "You called?"

Unamused, his tone bland, Seto asked, "Did you do this?"

Bakura scoffed, "Why do you think it took me so long to get here? That weather is hell."

"That wasn't my question." Seto said delicately, his eyes narrowed. Being out of his comfort zone obviously made him rather testy.

"Well, I'm certainly glad you equate me to god, Seto," Bakura's tone seemed to have taken note of the annoyance in Seto's, and thus had doubled in amusement level, "But I'm only taking advantage of an excellent opportunity."

_'I'_ Seto wrote, glaring at Bakura all the while, _'am not very happy about this.'_

"Cold yet?" Bakura went on casually, grinning at him through the darkness; Seto found it disturbing that his teeth and hair were the only things visible.

"Not in the least." The stubborn Kaiba responded, crossing one leg over the other so as to keep his legs from shaking against one another. He doubted this would really fool Bakura, since the other man seemed to observe everything he tried to hide no matter how subtly he went about it.

"Liar." The word was dropped coolly as Bakura moved maybe one or two feet closer, so Seto could see his eyes, "You're thinner than I am and I'm cold."

"You were outside." Seto countered easily, further closing his posture by crossing his arms over his chest; he did, in spite of this, keep his pen between his fingers.

"And you haven't moved in over an hour. You'd better get going some time soon or that hot ass of yours is going to freeze to the chair."

"You're crude." Of course, it was obvious what Bakura wanted. Small wonder, when it was always the same thing Bakura came to him for. Well and good, even knowing that, Seto wasn't about to make it easy.

"You ain't seen nothing yet." Not quite a threat, but presented with such a smirk that one knew the joke was only a weak façade of propriety.

Seto found that he'd winced at that, unbidden; his tone was harsh and scathing. "And so grammatically well-accomplished too, that was just wonderful."

What had been lurking beneath the joke of his previous phrase now rose with warning and Bakura's tone darkened by several degrees, "Don't start pushing me, Seto, it's too early in the evening for that."

"Then come back in an hour, if I'm _allowed_ to be terse with you then." Seto snapped coldly, his hand once again moving swiftly across the page in front of him.

_'I am about to receive more attention than I would like right now.'_

"Seto." Bakura's tone commanded that Seto look up at him – and it was closer than before. The white-haired teenager was right around on Seto's side of the desk, not even two feet away from him.

Seto resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "What?"

Bakura leaned in and muttered, "I love you," before fisting his hand in the hair at the nape of Seto's neck and yanking him forward into a rough kiss. For the impression this action gave off, he may as well have said 'I hate you'.

The pen slipped from Seto's limp fingers, his eyes widening slightly. He blinked hard to keep tears from slipping down his cheeks; Bakura's grip was _hard_ and the nerve endings where he was pulling were sensitive. It only took a second, however, for his own mouth to start reacting and _wanting_ that kiss.

And it was precisely that moment when Bakura pulled away, his breathing hitched. He growled one word, and Seto complied, "Move."

-----

The next morning, Seto awoke to the sound of the furnace furiously working to reheat the chilled house. He himself was not cold, sprawled beneath the sheets and blankets of his bed. He lay still on his back for several minutes, just listening, before he rose to make a cup of coffee. A glance into the room down the hallway let him know that Mokuba was still asleep.

Not a very long time afterwards, Seto returned to his own room and seated himself at his desk. On the single sheet of paper before him was a single line of neat, clearly printed writing, every phrase placed directly on top of the previous. It was illegible.


	10. Birthday Presents

_(A/N: A silly little attempt at getting back into writing after going through a bit of a slump. Quite a bit of language here.)_

Bakura had wondered, for a good while, what one could buy (or steal, if required) a man who had everything. Seriously, no holds barred, honest to goodness _ev-ry-thing_. It seemed an impossible feat – and he wasn't one often deterred by the impossible. Heck, it'd been a long time since he'd decided something couldn't be done.

That aside, Seto was finicky. Worse than a goddamned pedigree long-furred tight-assed stuck-up Persian cat. He detested jewellery, refused to wear any clothing but that which he bought for himself (not that Bakura wanted to encourage the practice of wearing clothing in his presence), didn't care for chocolate or cigarettes or alcohol or _anything_ that the average person might appreciate. The irony of giving him flowers ("You are my bitch, after all.") was greatly deterred by the fact that Seto would more likely than not _shoot him_ on the spot if he dared push the line that far and…

What else _was_ there?

There _had_ to be more prospective gifts out there. Linens? They were always tearing up the sheets. No, that was just stupid. Almost as bad as buying kitchenware for someone. Was it possible to choose a more generic and thoughtless gift? … If so, he'd probably already thought of it.

Shoes, books, music and movies were all no. Seto didn't care for having several pairs of shoes – he had black ones to match some suits, white ones for others and about a dozen pairs of boots for every other possible occasion. He really required no more footwear. As for books, he hardly read them. His excuse was always working. Ditto for listening to music and watching movies – he didn't have that kind of time to waste, so he said.

Bakura wondered a little why choosing a gift he considered 'good enough for Seto' mattered so much to him, but decided it was one of those enigmas he shouldn't concern himself with. Rather like why the Earth was round or why sand was dry.

So, to continue. Any sort of home or office decoration was a ridiculous idea, as was something like a picture frame or vase. Seto didn't _use_ those kinds of things and moreover, he thought of them as wastes of space and eyesores. (Bakura figured that if Seto could dwell in a plain black room sitting on a plain black office chair with plain black _everything_ and the glow of his precious computer screen, he'd be totally and completely happy. This was unfortunate, because Bakura, as selfish as he was, refused to allow him that much pleasure.)

He didn't even allow himself to think of electronics. If Seto wanted it, he had it. Point blank.

Sex toys? … The idea was laughable. Absurd. Seto didn't _do_ sex toys, literally or otherwise. It was enough of a chore to get him into bed for real sex – it wouldn't do to give himself self-controlled competition (he didn't wonder Seto might use a dildo just to spite him).

He was about ready to tear his hair out. What on the great bloody Earth could he give the richest teenager in Japan that wasn't boring, useless, insensitive, ugly, competition, stupid, cheap, or something he already had?

… Oho.

And so that was how it came to be that Seto received a very perky and poorly-wrapped Bakura for his birthday.


End file.
